Coulda, Shoulda, Woulda
by gagaoverGA
Summary: A collection of oneshots about what could have or should have happened in certain epis. First chap: GA 5X15 Before and After, crossover epi, Addison/Derek I wanted - needed - to give them closure


_COULDA SHOULDA WOULDA_

_This is possibly a collection (I do mean __**possibly**__) of oneshots about what I feel could have or should have happened in certain episodes of Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice. I'd mostly be following the exact storylines of each epi, unless I have to twist or ignore some details to suit my story. I'm a litte bit in love with Addison now, so this will most likely be all about her, but I may find another scene/epi that I'd like to take on in the future, so who knows._

_This first oneshot is about the Archer crossover epi, GA 5X15, Before and After. Everything that happened in the episode, well, happened here, too. I hope it won't be confusing; I'll try to label each scene so you'll know where it fits in relation to the episode. The ending where they were all at Joe's bar, singing that love song Derek wrote … that look on Addie's face as she watched Derek (after the line, "from everyday until eternity"). It spoke so much! It was just such a powerful scene, so I wanted to expound on it. And I so desperately needed closure for Derek and Addison. Forgive the 'angsty' tone of this chapter … and its length lol. Well, anyway, hope you enjoy it._

_Don't own anything … except for the mistakes_

* * *

'_I put you in a tiny box. After the divorce, I made you petty and inconsequential and nothing special, so that you could fit into this tiny little box that would help me get out of bed in the morning …'_

He flinched as he recalled the fear and worry in her voice when she all but begged him to be a god. She had asked him for help … turned to him to get her through this … just as she'd always done. She came to him to ease her burden, to take away the fears, to chase away the demons. That was his job. For more than eleven years, that was his job. He had made that vow last decade - such a lifetime ago - to cherish her, to protect her, to go through life's challenges with her.

He may have been remiss in carrying out some of those vows, and they may have had huge problems in their marriage, but he had always, at least in the fifteen or so years since their relationship began, been the person she turned to when she needed someone to share her burdens. Even if he wasn't in any position to solve the problem for her, just the knowledge that he shared the burden with her always gave her comfort. Many a night they lay in bed or sat on the couch or stood on the balcony, his arms tightly wound around her as she ranted and rambled on about a complicated case or an argument with a colleague over a diagnosis or the latest snide comment Bizzy had not so inadvertently drop into one of those rare phone conversations. She let off steam; he held her. That was what they'd always do. She'd look at him with pained grey eyes and he'd take her in his arms, and for that brief moment while he held her, he had the power to make everything right. For a little over a decade, he had that power to make things right for her. That was his job. That's what he'd always do for her …

_What he always __**did**_, he corrected.

He sighed heavily as he continued to watch her sitting slumped in one of the seats in the gallery, her eyes staring unseeingly into the dark and empty OR below her. He recognized the defeat and uncertainty in the way her shoulders hung dejectedly, her hands clasping her elbows tightly as she struggled with her thoughts.

He saw the exact moment when she felt his presence, when she realized that he had intruded on her much-needed solitude. He watched her raise a hand to swipe at what he could imagine were tears streaming down her cheek, and he felt his heart tighten at what he could see in his mind's eye. Heaviness in her shoulders, red hair falling silkily as an aid in partially hiding the emotions on her face, her arms tightly wound around her as an attempt to self-soothe … all tell-tale signs that she was struggling. He always knew, even without her having to say anything, he always knew when she needed him. Spending more than a third of your life with someone shapes the person you've become. Even if the union did end so terribly and awkwardly, there are certain things that just become so ingrained in you, feelings and emotions that you can't shake off, habits you can't get rid of just because the marriage is over.

Looking at the obvious pain she was trying to conceal but her body was not so successful at hiding from him, he tried to brace himself by clamping down on his instinctual need to comfort her. It was no longer his job. He didn't have the power nor the right to give her the comfort she sought. He had signed away those rights when he affixed his signature on those divorce papers, just as she had given up the right to be comforted when she affixed hers.

But habits die hard and instincts are difficult to ignore.

He knew what he was going to see if she looked at him. He knew. But he wasn't quite prepared for the sudden kick in his gut, pain so overwhelming that it shook him, when she finally turned to him slowly in acknowledgment of his intrusion. The grey orbs that sought his blue ones held for but a brief moment the familiar pleading for comfort. Just a very brief moment, she allowed him to see that he was the one who could ease her pain. Just a brief moment before the shutters fell into place.

_You no longer have the right_, she reminded herself, as she continued to look at Derek. No matter how much she needed - desperately wanted - his comfort, she just didn't have the right anymore. She lost the right to turn to him when she slept with Mark. And he was no longer bound to her; he had Meredith now. He's moved on. It's not his responsibility to make things better for her, to hold her, to share her burdens, to put her back together. Not anymore.

But that's who she was and that's who he was to her. For fifteen years, he was the first person - the only person - she's needed. Whether it was getting over a horrendous day or overcoming a seemingly impossible situation, she always sought the comfort only he could provide. He didn't even have to say anything; he just had to smile at her, softly run his fingers on her hand, plant a kiss on her temple, or better still, hold her tightly to him as she cried into his chest. Even just a warm assuring glance from him across the room could make her … feel safe. And she desperately needed that now, but she no longer had the right and he had no obligation to give it to her, so she shut down the instinct to turn to him.

She saw the uncertainty in his blue eyes, the hesitation in his stance as he leant against the door. She wasn't quite ready to give up the somewhat calming security the empty gallery accorded her, but he was there, and though she no longer had the right, he was there! And she was human.

Maybe he, too, couldn't just forget eleven years of marriage and ignore what had become a habit. Maybe he, too, couldn't just disregard the instinctual need to protect her just as she couldn't fight the need to seek solace from him. Whatever it was that had brought him there, whatever force or spirit or god that drove him to locate her at the precise moment she needed him, she wasn't going to question it. Just as she wouldn't question how he knew she needed him, nor the inexplicable sense that always alerted her to his presence. Whenever he's close, she always seems to know. She wouldn't question any of it. It's just the way it is between them.

She gave him a tight smile and a defeated shrug, silently voicing her invitation to invade her solitude. She let out an expansive sigh as she saw him push himself off the door frame to enter the gallery. She watched his slow progress for a while; the lazy stride that brought him closer to her itself was somehow comfort enough. She turned her gaze back to the OR below her to gather her thoughts and prepare herself for a conversation with the person she's loved all her adult life. She may not be in love with him anymore, but he still had tremendous power over her. Not the power to hurt her but the ability to hurt her by just not being **that** person who had the power to hurt her.

"Addie," he whispered as he breathed out, and she looked up at him towering over her, his blue gaze tortured with the desire to comfort warring with the knowledge that it was no longer his place to do so. She choked back a sob and fastened her hands on the armrests to prevent her from reaching out to him.

He took in a lungful of air before he slowly turned and settled himself down on the seat to her left, careful not to touch her. He didn't want to damage or upset this weird, complicated peace that had settled between them after the divorce. They'd agreed to a certain level of civility, a strange agreement of sorts that would allow them to co-exist … a cordial friendship that prevents them from being too familiar with each other but, at the same time, acknowledges the inescapable feeling of familiarity. There always was a thin line, a very fragile and delicate line, that reminded them of their place at each other's lives, or rather lack thereof, and though they often found themselves crossing that line out of sheer habit, they always remembered to walk back across to safety. This was dangerous, he recognized, but the temptation to overstep the boundaries of their peaceful co-existence was just too much to overcome.

"Addie," he whispered again, this time accompanied by the unsolicited offer of empathy and compassion.

It was the compassion that undid her. Though he didn't touch her, not even brush against her as he slipped into the seat beside her, she felt his overpowering presence, and that made her bolt out of the chair in panic. To put some distance between them - much needed distance - she positioned herself in front of the glass panel, pressing her forehead against the cool surface. Her hand, now lacking the once permanent reminder of their marriage, settled against the glass without a sound.

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on her. A couple of years ago, when she was fighting like hell to save her marriage, he was indifferent and apathetic. Now, she was fighting like hell not to succumb to the temptation of the comfort he was willingly offering.

She took a calming breath and turned to face him, leaning against the window to maintain a friendly distance. She crossed her arms to augment the physical detachment from him. She, however, let his presence wash over her, his kind gaze enveloping her in warmth.

"He's my brother, Derek," she said softly.

"I know, Addie. I'm sorry," he sighed. He felt powerless. The one time she turned to him because he was actually the solution to her problem and he couldn't help her. _ Dammit! _He wiped a hand over his face and sighed deeply, adding, "I wish I could do this, Addison, but …" he trailed off, shrugging helplessly.

"You were supposed to fix this, Derek," she accused, unconsciously lunging forward a few steps, her pointer finger tapping the air repeatedly to accentuate her charge. "You were supposed to make things right for me!"

He flinched visibly, as if he'd been struck, and lifted his pained blue eyes to meet her tortured grey ones.

Deeply ashamed for her outburst, she wiped furiously at her tears, raising herself to her full height as she backed away from him. Trembling hands fidgeting with her hair and suit, she hoarsely chanted, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Derek. I didn't mean … I'm sorry … I …"

Distraught, she bumped against the glass panel with enough force to throw her off balance. Still trying to regain her composure, she didn't notice that Derek had jumped out of his seat to prevent her from falling until she felt his hand on her right elbow, its warmth permeating through the material of her suit. She gasped then recoiled from his touch, unsure if it were because of the shock of almost falling or the conflicting emotions triggered by his grip. She dared a glance at her ex-husband, guiltily flushing when she took in the offended furrowing of his eyebrows. Sighing heavily, she threw him a tight smile in apology before turning to face the window, effectively disengaging herself from his grasp. Wrapping her arms around herself, she rubbed at the spot his hand had just previously warmed. He was too close; she could feel the heat emanating from his body, the left side of her body feeling the full impact of his nearness. She held herself rigid to brace herself from the proximity.

Expelling a breath, she turned her face to him, pleadingly looking at him. She licked her lips before whispering, "I'ts Archer, Derek. He's my family. He's the only one I've got." She paused to swallow, her throat constricting as more tears threatened to escape. "He can't die, Derek … I'm all alone, so he can't … he's all I've got left … so if he dies, I wouldn't matter …," she said disjointedly, and then, horrified at what she had just said and to whom she said it, she abruptly moved to leave.

Without even thinking, Derek wrapped his fingers around her arm to pull her back, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He sighed heavily. It gutted him; her tirade about family and being alone … it was like being kicked in the stomach by an entire football team. **He** was her family for eleven years. He'd been so wrapped up in the anger and resentments, the guilt and the unwillingness to forgive. Ending the marriage seemed the sensible way - the only way - to get their lives back in order. The marriage didn't work, so they terminated it. Just like that. It didn't occur to him, until this very moment, that ending the marriage had deeper ramifications than just ceasing to live together and being husband and wife. Signing those divorce papers also severed the ties he's had with the person, the one woman, who's been his other half for most of his adult life. She was his family; he was hers. For over a decade, she was his companion and confidante, his other half. This past year, he had, in his own way, mourned the end of the marriage but failed to realize the friendship he had lost. He may not be in love with her anymore, but they'd always have a connection to one another. He'd loved her for so long, and one couldn't turn off such a powerful emotion just like that. Their marriage may have been damaged and had left them both with lasting hurts, but he would never ever not care about her. She would always matter to him.

Tightening his hold on her, he shifted to his left with an economy of movement, angling his head toward her so they could look at each other's faces. Affection warming his eyes, he softly assured her, "That's not true, Addie."

She met his gaze, her eyes hungrily taking in the features permanently etched in her brain, noting the slight differences in his appearance then committing them to memory for future use … to be accessed the next time she needed comfort, to feel safe … when she needed **him**. It's pathetic, really, how deeply this man could affect her, not that she was still pining for him. Gone is the unbearable pain she used to feel for losing her husband; it was now just a dull ache of regret for the _could have been_s. She'd gotten over the sex, the conversations over coffee and cereal, the teasing bickering over errands and chores, the harried lunches between surgeries, the flirting in hospital corridors, the rare evenings they spent curled up in bed as they watched TV. Those things she could share with another person. What hurt most, what she terribly missed was the connection they had … that strong bond with him, the one that alerted her to his presence as soon as he walked into a room, the one that made her heart swell with happiness just by being, the one that inexplicably made them each aware of what the other was feeling or thinking … a connection so strong that losing it felt like she had lost a part of herself.

She stifled the rush of pain with a sigh and turned her head away from him. She didn't want him to read her. She knew he could, just by looking at her. He'd know what she was thinking, and she didn't want him to know. So she averted her gaze and choked back another sob, angrily wiping at the tears that she was unable to control.

He felt a weight on his chest when he saw her turn away, and he couldn't bear the immense pain that hit him. This was the first time, in the almost two decades since they've known each other, that she had looked away from him. He was the one who wouldn't look her in the eye, who wasn't always brave enough to maintain eye contact. Even during fights or arguments, she would always look directly at him. It hurt now that she couldn't look at him. He hated that. He hated that she felt the need to distance herself from him.

"Addie," he uttered tenderly, trying to get her to look at him.

She made an inarticulate sound, a cross between a gasp and a yelp, as she heard him say her name. She shifted slightly to her right, increasing the distance between their bodies. That's how he used to say her name, with such tenderness and concern, right before he'd take her in his arms. She couldn't bear it today. Not today. She didn't have any fight left in her.

"Addie," he repeated.

She involuntarily looked at him when he had called her name the second time, and she allowed herself only a second or two to take him in before quickly looking away again. It wasn't quick enough though because she had time to recognize the message he was silently sending. She really didn't have the strength to turn down such an offer. She didn't want to - oh how she didn't want to turn it down - but thoughts of Meredith pervaded. It's funny, really, that Meredith had once again come between them, only this time it was the other woman who'd be wronged should she give in to the weakness. To bolster her courage to resist giving in to temptation, she hugged herself tighter.

"I can't, Derek," she whispered hoarsely, her voice cracking at the use of his name. "We're not … I don't have … you're with, um … it's not …," she stammered, her mouth clearly incapable of catching up with the confusing thoughts running amok in her brain.

He watched her chew on her lower lip, worrying it till he could see it turning slightly pink due to the abuse it was receiving from her perfectly lined teeth. He knew she was going to crack any minute. The woman was stubborn and strong-willed, he'd give her that, but he knew she'd eventually give in. She always did … in the end or when it mattered.

"Addison," he beckoned, a teasing smile accompanying his cajoling. "I'm here … I'm your friend … you're not alone," he soothed.

The slight lilt in his tone of voice alerted her to the mood shift, the playful Derek coming to light. She was in danger now more than ever. She bravely glanced at him, her eyebrow raised questioningly. _Dammit!_ She rolled her eyes at him in annoyance as he flashed her what she assumes is the smile that had earned him the McDreamy moniker. _Damn, damn, damn!_ She recognized that smile for what it was … the secret weapon he used on her when he wanted to get his way. He liked games … he enjoyed playing and he didn't like losing, at least not losing at their games. When he got into this mood, playful Derek was a challenge to resist, and he knew it. She never could resist playful Derek … never ever wanted to.

He let go of her arm to encircle both of his around her body, drawing her left side against him. His smile widened when she didn't resist.

"We're friends. I'll be the person to whom you matter. I'll be your friend, Addie," he said affectionately.

She chuckled as she turned her face to his, smirking at him, eyebrow raised challengingly.

"You suck as a friend," she threw back laughingly, her hands, on their own volition, transferring from her elbows to the muscular arm holding her firmly.

"No," he contested smilingly. "I sucked as a husband, but I don't suck as a friend."

"Yeah, well, that's true, but still …" she replied.

Though she had allowed him to gather her close, she had kept her arms crossed to maintain a level of detachment. She felt his arms tighten around her, his hand on her waist maneuvering her into turning her body towards his. She allowed him to position her so she was facing him, but she kept her head bent, yet again preserving a disengagement of some sorts. She did, however, let the warmth of his embrace and the familiar comfort of his hands on her lower back wash over her.

He let out a contented sigh, his breath gently ruffling her hair.

"We can be friends, Addie," he whispered, leaning his left cheek against her temple. Noting that she still kept herself rigid against him, he continued, "We're allowed to be friends, Addison. She's not …," he paused, lifting his head. He unerringly recognized the reason for her hesitancy. He unclasped his hands from her back and snaked his left hand around her waist to keep her in place. With his right hand, he gently brushed the silky hair from her face, his fingers surprisingly tingling at the familiarity of the gesture. He let his hand settle at her nape, fingers absently playing with her hair, unaccustomed to the shorter length.

Expelling another sigh, he gently squeezed her nape to indicate that she look at him. When she finally met his eyes, he softly said, "We've been best friends - family - for a long time, Addie. She …," he paused for a while, "nobody is going to begrudge us friendship. We are allowed to be friends. It's not … it shouldn't be a problem."

She released the breath she didn't know she was holding then inhaled the accustomed scent that was uniquely Derek's. Finally giving in, she unclasped her fingers from her right arm and slowly, carefully, wound her left arm around his waist, sagging into the warmth of his embrace with relief. She allowed her right hand to unhurriedly creep up his body, sliding to a stand-still on his chest, her palm absorbing the steady _thump thump_ of his heart. With a final look at his face to be absolutely certain that this was permissible, she burrowed her head in the crook of his neck, automatically nuzzling her nose against his skin as she had done for years. _Safe_.

He completed the ritual by swaying really slowly, the movement barely discernable.

Loathe as she was to shatter the security and serenity of the past few minutes, she broke the companionable silence by speaking.

"Please, Derek. You have to at least try to save him. All I'm asking is that you try. He can't die, Derek," she sobbed.

"Oh, Addie," he sighed, rubbing his chin against her head, letting the anguish and concern wash over him as he continued to hold his ex-wife.

The helplessness and defeat were still written all over his face when he glanced towards the second gallery door and saw Meredith standing against the door frame, her expressive face reflecting worry and empathy as she gazed at the redhead's unmoving form. When his girlfriend met his gaze, he smiled tiredly at her, conveying with his eyes what he hopes was a message that would assure the blonde of their relationship.

The resident confirmed that she indeed recognized the intended message by briefly smiling back at him. She then lifted the arm holding a folder, sadly shaking her head as she gently waved the lab results to indicate that they weren't promising. She gestured that she'd page him later, and with a more reassuring smile, she waved her goodbye then left as quietly as she came, leaving the former lovers to their solitude.

* * *

_X - At an on-call room, shortly after Derek spoke with Sam - X_

Meredith gently shut the door behind her, her gaze intent on the silent man occupying one of the beds. His hands clasped behind his head, he was staring unseeingly at the ceiling, his eyes not focusing on any single spot. Not wanting to disrupt his thinking process, she approached the bed as quietly as she could, coming to a halt when she stood towering over him where his bent knee jutted out of the bed. She waited till he looked directly at her.

She smiled down at him, concern evident in her eyes. She saw him shift a little to make room for her on the bed, and she lowered herself on it, taking a seat on the edge. She raised her left leg, letting it brush against his sides, her hip nestled against his. She leaned forward to lessen the distance between them, reaching across his body to let her left hand rest on the bed astride his right hip.

She ran her free hand against his torso leisurely, soothingly. He smiled at her, slowly reaching for her hand, entwining his fingers with hers.

"Sam and I figured out a way to remove the cysts," he said softly, giving her a tight smile. "It is, however, too risky to attempt. There are eight of them, Mer. If one ruptures …," he trailed off.

"If you don't do the surgery, Derek, he's gonna die," she replied just as softly.

"If I do the surgery and rupture the cysts, he's going to die, too. I don't want to be the one to kill her brother."

She moved closer to him, scooting upward till her face was hovering above his. She ran her hand through his hair, gently massaging his scalp.

"You said you figured out a way to remove them. The risk may be high but it **is** possible. So do the surgery, Derek," she implored. Cupping his face, she continued, "You have to do it for her. All she's asking is for you to try."

* * *

_A/N: Okay, i really needed Addie and Derek to have closure, which is why I wrote this. In a conversation between Addie and Wyatt (the one at the cafeteria, PP2X12), she said, "you have all that love … where does it go?" I feel that what she said is so true. I also wrote that scene between Meredith and Derek coz I believe that they're already at the point of a more stable and secure relationship, and by being the one to encourage and push him to do the surgery, I wanted to show that she recognizes that a friendship between the former couple isn't a threat to her own relationship with him. I also intended to expound on the final bar scene, but then I realized just how perfect it was, that changing or adding to it would be a mortal sin lol._

_I haven't written anything in three years, so please be gentle. I'd greatly appreciate your feedback … especially your reviews about my writing (grammar, spelling, punctuation marks, flow, too rushed, inconsistent, etc.) so i could improve on it. Okay, so you don't need to be too gentle but at least be kind. Honest but kind lol. Anyway, thanks for reading. _


End file.
